


Honour Among Thieves

by Glassdarkly



Series: SB Fag Ends Drabbles and Short Fics: BtVS season 6 [13]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, Drama, Football | Soccer, Gen, Prompt Fic, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 17:12:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/955664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glassdarkly/pseuds/Glassdarkly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike runs into an unexpected sporting challenge on his arrival in Africa at the end of BtVS season 6.</p><p>First posted in August 2013 to SB Fag Ends on Livejournal. For the theme: Some Like It Hot. For the prompt: Putting the boot in in Djibouti.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honour Among Thieves

**Author's Note:**

> Spike is a Manchester United supporter, which is why he hates Arsenal (and probably Manchester City, Liverpool and Chelsea too). Alex Fergusson was, until recently, the manager of Man U.

It's not the first time football's saved his life. There was that nasty incident in Hong Kong, for instance, when he had to pretend to the butt-ugly demon that wanted to bite his head off that he was a talent scout for Man U and could put in a good word for it with Alex Fergusson. 

But there's a lot more than just his life at stake this time, and the fuckers have put him in goal. 

The fuckers in question being the local vamps, who'd grabbed him not long after nightfall, when he'd just emerged from his shipping container and was still gaping around like an idiot at how much Djibouti city had changed since the last time he'd been this way. 

Mind you, that _had_ been in the Thirties - one of the many times he and Dru had had to get out of Europe in a hurry. 

The place had been much smaller then- streets a mish-mash of French-style colonial buildings on broad boulevards, and in the native part of the city, narrow alleyways, clogged with bazaars and souks.

Not that everything is different. Downtown might be full of gleaming modern buildings and wide roads nowadays, and the container port might be bloody enormous and all mechanised, but it was still dusty, still hot as hell, and there were still plenty of those narrow alleyways in the old city to drag unsuspecting foreigners down and kill them.

Or, in his case, to make them play bloody football. 

His team captain - a skinny vamp with a wall eye and a mean look - name of Mohammed - is yelling at him in Somali. There're enough French words scattered through the tirade, though, that he gets the message.

Stop the other side scoring, or the killing option's still on the table. 

He spreads his arms, tries to make himself look bigger (hopeless task), dances from foot to foot, like he knows what he's doing.

The vamp squaring up to the ball is wearing an Arsenal shirt (enough to make him see red all on its own), and its bare feet look tough as leather. The vamp's intent, yellow gaze goes from the ball to the hapless goalie and back. It grins a fang-filled grin.

Afterwards, lying on his back in the dirt, ball hugged to his chest, he's no idea how he saved that shot, just that he saved it. 

Suddenly, a brown hand attached to a skinny brown arm grabs hold of one of his lax hands and hauls him to his feet. He's eye to eye with Mohammed, whose one dark eye is boring into his like a gimlet.

If he had a soul (crux of the whole fucking problem) he'd say that Mohammed was looking right into it. As it is, who can say what the bloke sees in there? All he knows is that it's enough to make Mohammed drop his hand like it was poisoned and back away several paces.

There's an argument going on between the other vamps. From the few words he can make out, this isn't the first time they've run this scam, and usually it only ends one way. They promise to let their victim go if he stops that ball going into the net, but then they kill him anyway. 

That way, they get to play their favourite game and torment their prey all in one go. A win-win situation all round for them.

And now, most of them still want to steal his clothes and dust him, but Mohammed's top dog and for some reason, he doesn't agree. Looking over his shoulder at him all the while, with this weird expression on his face, like he's scared of him suddenly, Mohammed's saying they're not doing it this time. They're keeping their word.

But somehow it doesn't seem to have much to do with him, even though it's his life they're arguing the toss about. 

Instead, he gazes up at the clear African sky with its myriad indifferent stars. He could make a break for it while they're arguing, he thinks, but what's the point? He won't get far before they catch him. And if he can't get where he's going - can't do what he came to Africa to do - then he's better off dead anyway.

Nevertheless, when Mohammed says, "Good save," or the equivalent, in accented French. "You get to live. Now, get the hell out of my city," he doesn't hesitate, just turns his back on them - if they're going to kill him, they're going to kill him - and limps away. A dead man walking.

Somewhere here he'll find a truck heading south, towards Ethiopia and beyond. 

Behind him, he hears the argument begin again. Louder this time. One vamp still wants his jeans, another his boots. Another wants to at least torture him before they let him go. Gouge out an eye, perhaps, or lop off the odd spare limb. Maybe pull out his fangs.

But Mohammed snarls them into silence. 

"You want nothing of his," he says, or words to that effect. "He's left a wasteland behind him. Death is all he has left."

The truth of the words hit him like a blow between the shoulder-blades. Bloke must be prescient, like Dru. She always knew. Always.

He's furious suddenly, every instinct telling him to turn around and kill the fucker. Kill them all. Erase them from existence. Let his dirty secrets turn to dust along with them.

But he keeps walking. It isn't worth the risk.

Because if they ended up killing him after all, _she'd_ never know how angry, how sorry - how fucking angry/sorry! - he is. 

Angry that she did this to him. Made him into this weak, pathetic _thing_ that'll walk away from a fight for her sake.

Sorry that he broke so many promises - that he did... _that_ to her when he swore he'd never hurt her. 

That she'll never get what she deserves.


End file.
